


if you're gonna try to walk on water, make sure you wear comfortable shoes

by aiineslin



Category: Disco Elysium
Genre: 3 Times Plus 1, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:22:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22193992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aiineslin/pseuds/aiineslin
Summary: revachol can be a small city (when she wants to be).alternatively, kim runs into harry three different times over the years, and once when harry comes looking for kim.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 121





	if you're gonna try to walk on water, make sure you wear comfortable shoes

**Author's Note:**

> english isn't my first language so i'm sorry if some bits sound wonky yeh!!  
> do let me know if you spot out any inconsistencies with canon or whatnot because there are definitely some bits of canon lore i misremembered, forgot or can't dig up from the wiki
> 
> art by the wonderful hannah!!!! admire her talent on https://www.tumblr.com/blog/enterthepale and https://twitter.com/hannahl2315

The hospital is in a perpetually muted state of frenzied activity. Every once in a while, the wail of sirens sound, and doctors and nurses fly out to ferry an inevitably bleeding patient through the swinging doors.

The large room Kim finds himself in now is similarly noisy – the murmur of conversation between family, patient and hospital staff is a perpetual background buzz. Thin green curtains between the small, uncomfortable beds give a flimsy semblance of privacy.

He has brought flowers and the requisite carton of Gaouloises; the bouquet sits limply beside Eyes’ head.

Today, Eyes is awake, and his gaze is clear and bright; no morphine fog glazed across his face.

They make small talk for a few minutes, but it lapses into silence quick enough – one of the reasons why Kim and Eyes have gotten along so well is their shared inability to make useless small talk.

When Eyes speaks again, his voice is careful, his tone neutral. “Kim, I’ve got something to tell you.”

And this is it – the reason why Eyes had called him in for a visit. Kim’s shoulders are stiff, his posture straight. Instinctively, Kim had tensed up, preparing himself for whatever Eyes is going to say.

And Eyes says, “I’m quitting the RCM.” He pats his knee. “This baby is all kinds of fucked up now.”

A muscle pulses in Kim’s cheek.

“The doctors say with regular physiotherapy, I can walk again.” Eyes surveys Kim. “That’s something, innit?”

“How long is it going to take?” Kim rasps out.

“I don’t know, Kim. A year? Two years?” Eyes shrugs. “They can’t give a concrete timeline. I’ll tell you what they can give, though.” He laughs unhappily. “Them bills are gonna be _bad_.”

Kim is staring at the ground, his knuckles whitening.

“Ain’t your fault, Kim.” There is too much gentleness in your Eyes’ voice; there is no blame - he is too kind, and he makes Kim’s heart hurt. “How are you gonna know them kids had a gun on them, eh?”

-

The rooftop is devoid of frippery – an expanse of grey cement bound by metal railings and Kim thinks that he has been here before, years and years ago, under a rainstorm with cigarettes that refused to light up.

There is a man there, leaning against the furthest railing. A cigarette pokes out from his mouth, and he is clicking his lighter futilely – no flame sparks above the lighter.

He looks up when the door swings open, and he catches Kim’s eye. Too late, Kim already has his Astra in his hand. “Spare a light?”

The man has a neatly trimmed moustache, broad shoulders and wide dark eyes with darker eyebags. Kim can smell his cologne from a few feet away – warm and masculine and strong – the same cologne that Eyes wears, in fact. 

Kim hands his lighter over mutely, and the man sparks his cigarette to life with a quick flick, cupping it with one hand to protect it from the wind.

“Thanks,” he says, and then the man nods at Kim’s jacket. “RCM?”

Kim looks down at the patch. “Quite obvious, no?”

“Yeah.” The man nods, and a smile tugs at the corner of his lips before he reaches into the depths of his coat - and with all the panache of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, produces an all too familiar badge.

Kim blinks.

“Oh. Nice to meet you.” They shake hands.

There is only one reason why RCM cops carrying official insignia will be at the hospital, and they avoid the topic politely. 

They smoke together in companionable silence, and when Kim is done, he puts his cigarette out on the bottom of his shoe before flicking it into the nearby bin. He moves away from the railing to leave, and the man says, “Look, man… Uh, if you don’t mind, could you leave your lighter with me?”

The man already has his crumpled Astra out, and Kim can see how he worries at the edges of the pack.

Kim hesitates for a moment – but just for a moment.

“Sure.” He passes the lighter over, and the man beams, his eyes brightening.

“Thanks, brother-man.” The man claps him on his shoulder. He sticks an Astra between his lips, a flame already flickering atop Kim’s lighter. In his large grip, his hand covers the crude eye carved into the steel. “I hope your partner gets better.”

Kim looks down and away.

“I hope so too.”

(***)

There is a card on the table.

It is cream, edged with fanciful golden-orange filigree and the lettering is curling and sloping and altogether near unreadable.

The cops of Precinct 57 are arrayed around the table it is on, looking at it as if it is a bomb – and perhaps it is, a bomb of sorts.

“It’s a big ‘un,” sighs Diamandis. “Lots of cops goin’. So we gotta send a representative. Make a good show of it, yeah?” Pop, went her gum. Down, went the gaze of her coppers as she swept her blue, bored stare over them. “C’mon. C’mon. Show up for a brother.”

“Kitsuragi could go,” Rodriguez says, and Kim’s head pops up.

“No,” he bites out reflexively. “I don’t know anybody from the 41st.”

But Diamandis’ gaze is upon him, and she is contemplating – her jaw has stilled and her tongue has poked the gum into her cheek and Kim _recognises_ those tells like a good cop.

“Think of it this way, you’ll be able to make some _new friends_ , yeah?”

-

He wears his best jacket, best shirt and best trousers to the event.

Press-ganged into his duty or not, Kim thinks it is good form to put on a good showing for the 57th.

The engagement party is held in a community centre’s largest room; rows of mismatched chairs make up the seats. It is largely members of the RCM that attend the party, and when there are not enough seats, the attendees hug the walls, taking up space beside the tables barely holding up under the buffet food.

He doesn’t quite understand why Du Bois and Ingerlund (at least, that’s what the names on the invitation card said) wanted to host an engagement party. That is the domain of those who have money to spare, and a lower-ranking cop barely had two centims to rub together most months.

(That could be the reason why there is such a large turnout for the party. Free food and free alcohol drew cops like shit called to flies.)

Whatever the case, the couple has clearly made the best of it; there is free-flowing cheap alcohol, tiny little vases of flowers posted on some tables, and an absolutely humongous balloon arch sitting at the front of the room.

A sappy love song is blasted out from a boombox; the happy couple makes their announcements to the cheers and claps of the assembled – and there is a good amount of weeping – mostly by the moustachioed man as he bawls into the shoulder of his fiancée, who laughs as she strokes his hair, her own tears running down her face.

Appearance-wise, they are an exercise in pleasing contrasts – the man is dark and broad, his wife blonde and willowy.

“I love you,” says the man – lieutenant Du Bois, Kim recalls – “I love you, Dora.” He holds her like a drowning man.

“And I love you too, Harry.” Dora replies. She is pressing small kisses to his head, stroking his hair with one lace-gloved hand. “I love you, always.”

There is a mic before them so the attendees can hear them say their sweet nothings to each other, and while some people roll their eyes, there are more who snuffle a little, their noses growing hot as they watch the scene play out before them. Harry and Dora, Dora and Harry – they say their I love yous to each other as if there is only them, and only them in the whole of the Insulindian Isola.

The dark-haired, bearded man beside Kim snorts loudly as he watches the couple, and the blonde beside him elbows him hard in the side, a glassy smile pasted on his face.

“I’m taking bets on how long this lasts,” the brunette says, rubbing his side gingerly. There is a definite slur to his words, and the strong smell of Commodore Red hangs around him.

“Be nice, Jean,” the blonde admonishes. He shoots a glance towards Kim. “Don’t mind him.”

“Where are _her_ friends, anyways?” Jean says, clearly ignoring the blonde. “It’s just us.”

“Be _nice_.”

“D’you see anyone from her family here? Because I fucking don’t.”

“Jean…”

“She thinks it’s funny and _cool_ to fuck a bit of rough,” Jean continues, his voice steadily becoming louder - and this is clearly something that has been rehashed multiple times - because the blonde takes Jean’s arm and gently steers him away, nodding apologetically to Kim as he does so.

Kim glances back to the couple. They are still holding each other, and they have progressed to kissing each other. From Kim’s vantage point, it appeared there is quite a bit of tongue involved.

He takes another sip from his glass of wine.

(***)

“Kids shouldn’t smoke.”

There is a man standing in front of him, blocking out the sunlight. The man has buttoned his shirt wrongly, and he clearly hasn’t washed his hair in far too many days. He stank of dried sweat and old cigarette smoke, and his sideburns are wild and untrimmed. 

Kim stares at him.

Oh yes.

He is dressed in his suitably delinquent disguise; sporting knockoff Vejas, pleather jacket, and a thin gold chain. He even has sunglasses on his head.

Kim couldn’t even be bothered to reply; with a roll of his eyes, he returns to his attempts of coaxing a spark from his lighter. 

He feels someone settle down beside him on his bench – the man, cop, actually – Kim sees the badge clipped to his belt – had pulled out his own pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

Kim looks over.

“Spare a light?”

With a snort, the cop hands his lighter over.

“Thanks, copper.” Kim mutters as he takes the plastic lighter. It is shitty, the metal bites at his thumb when he spins the wheel, but a flame still snaps to wavering life after a few tries.

He feels the cop looking at him, his gaze heavy and curious. “Polite, aren’t you?”

“Do you want me to call you a fucking pig?” Kim retorts, passing the lighter back.

“I’d be more used to it,” the cop tells him amiably. He lights his own cigarette, taking a long drag from it, exhaling with a satisfied sigh.

“Well, your lighter is shit,” Kim says, deciding to warm to his theme. He’d show this cop who is an _impolite juvie_.

“Left my good lighter at home and bought this from the Frittte as a stopgap. And?” The cop appears to be waiting, seemingly fascinated.

“And.” Kim pauses. Thinks. Opens his mouth and closes it again.

His persona in The Seven Snakes is the aloof juvie who only speaks when needed, dispensing practical and much-needed advice when the leaders, inevitably, decide to do something really stupid and needlessly harmful. 

He stares blankly at the cop and sinks further into his jacket.

“Fuck off, copper,” mumbles Kim.

The man laughs; it is a belly laugh, deep and honest. And against his will, Kim likes the way the laugh lightens the man, eases the tiredness in his dark eyes.

It can be exhausting, Kim knows, to be a cop.

“Alright. My bad.” As he speaks, the cop removes a flask from the depths of his coat. When the cap comes off, Kim can smell the vodka fumes from his seat.

“Are you drinking on the job?” Kim’s voice is sharp.

The cop pauses, the flask hovering a few inches away from his mouth. There is a sharpness to his gaze that isn’t there before. “What’s it to you, kid?”

“It’s nothing,” Kim says belatedly. He looks away. “Kind of fucked up, innit. Coppers drinking on the job.”

It is the _innit_ that does the trick, a carefully placed bit of slang to make the cop relax.

The man takes a swig from the flask. “Look, kid. Sometimes. When you fall in love… sometimes fucked-up shit happens. And when that fucked-up shit happens…” His voice trails away. A bit of vodka spills from his mouth, and he wipes it roughly away with the back of his hand. “Life doesn’t stop for you.” He stares at the ground, unseeing. “Still gotta wake up. Go to work. Eat. Shit. Drinking helps a little. Makes it easier, you know?”

There is a frightening blankness in his eyes. There is despondency, and then there is _this_ – an abyssal emptiness.

“Mister, I don’t think -”

“Harry!” A shout shatters the air, sending pigeons flying. “OI!”

As if by magic, the flask disappears.

The cop that storms around the corner is distinctly more put-together than the vodka-swigging cop. Angrier, and somewhat more alive too – energy sparks off him. When he strides over to the cop and Kim, he doesn’t even deign to spare a glance at Kim. 

“Are you done? Mrs. Anders is wating.”

The cop stands up, pats himself down. “Give me a fucking minute to smoke a ciggie, Jean.” As Jean turns around and paces off, the cop tilts his head and surveys Kim. “See you ‘round.” He considers Kim for a moment, and he dips a wink. “In one of the other precincts, maybe?”

Kim bristles, but he doesn’t reply, instead choosing to watch the duo walk away.

He draws deep from his cigarette, feeling the harsh smoke rasp against his throat.

Being undercover can be so _lonely_.

(***)

When Harry visits, he brings with him Suzerainty and a carton of Astra.

“Oh my,” Kim had said upon seeing the all too familiar box tucked under Harry’s arm.

“Oh _yeah_ ,” says Harry with great satisfaction.

They spend long hours playing the game while Harry fills him in on all that had transpired in the days Kim was put out of commission. Cuno, for some ungodly reason, had became Harry’s partner in that period of time.

When Kim had heard that, he had put the game on pause for a few minutes.

(“How did you get that being to work with you?”

“Here’s the interesting part, Kim. I _heard_ him.”

Kim understands what Harry means by that – and that is when Kim finds out there are still some things in the world that can shock a hardened career cop.)

The day fades into night quick enough, and Harry buys takeaway for Kim after he sees the horrible slush of a chicken porridge that is served for dinner.

They eat burgers and drink soda, sharing headphones as they listen to the 7PM radio drama play out over on Kim’s radio. When they have finished eating (and the murderer apprehended on the drama), Harry says, “I’m going out for a smoke. Do… you want to join me?”

Kim kicks the blankets off him and swings his feet into the thin hospital slippers, unheeding of the pain that radiates from his wound. “Thought you’d never ask. I intend to.”

He had gone a week without Astra, and while Kim’s life does not revolve around nicotine, he finds himself becoming more and more antsy as the days go by.

“Lemme get a wheelchair for you.”

“I’m not an invalid,” Kim grumbles, but he acquiesces when Harry manages to wheedle a rickety old wheelchair from a nurse.

The roof is much the same as always; it has _always_ remained a constant through the years – an expanse of grey, utilitarian concrete bound by metal railings.

Harry supports Kim to the railings, and Kim watches Harry fumble out a pack of Astra and a steel lighter, offering them to him.

Sinking back into the ritual of lighting a cigarette and smoking is comfortable – Kim just did not realise he would have missed it this much. 

He finds himself huffing a little sigh of relief as he takes the offered lighter and Astra.

The weight of the lighter is cold and familiar in his hand. Kim looks at it, at the crude eye carved into the lower left corner of the steel.

Harry seems to have realise _something_ is going on, because he cocks a questioning eyebrow at Kim.

“My ex-partner gave this to me,” Kim says slowly, holding up the lighter. He points at the eye. “This eye. He carved it into the steel.” He stares at Harry, his brow furrowed. “How did you even get this?”

“Someone… gave it to me,” Harry’s eyebrows had shot all the way up, near to the top of his forehead. “Years and years back. When I was visiting Jean. It never broke, so I never threw it away.”

They stare at each other; the wind is high and it bites into Kim’s skin, raising the hair on his neck and arms.

Harry wordlessly takes off his jacket and drapes it around Kim’s shoulders.

“Thank you,” Kim says, slipping his arms into the jacket. The jacket smells of Harry and the cologne he wears – warm, spicy and comforting. “Khm. Back to the topic. If. Uhm. If you got this at the hospital. I think. I mean, _I_ – was the one who gave it to you.”

“Why,” Harry says, nonplussed. “Would you even give something like this to a stranger?”

( _Why would you even give_ your partner’s gift _away?_ )

“I didn’t think I deserved it,” Kim says, turning the lighter over in his hands. There are new scratches and dings that show up in the grey of the steel, but the crude eye remains visible. “I let him get shot. He was forced into retirement.” Kim bites the inside of his cheek. “I regretted it. When I went back to the roof, you were gone.”

Harry nods silently, (and frankly speaking, Kim is grateful that Harry is a _cop_ because sometimes there are things that you can’t put into words.)

“Are you still in contact with him?”

Kim shrugs. “We send each other holiday cards.” He clicks the lighter, watching the flame burn red in the darkness. “I bring him gossip sometimes.”

“No-one gossips like a retired cop,” Harry murmurs.

“Yes.” The wind puts the fire out and Kim runs a thumb over the eye. “He has contacts inside internal affairs. They have the juiciest gossip, from what I hear.”

“Maybe he should change his nickname to Ears,” Harry suggests, the smallest of grins tilting the corner of his mouth.

“Maybe,” Kim agrees, and he finds himself smiling too – it feels small, and painful, and too late in coming. But the lighter is in his hands again. It sits heavily, a familiar weight.

And abruptly, Harry says, the words punching out of him in one big rush – “I’m sorry, you know. I’m sorry I dragged you into my mess. I’m sorry I got you shot. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, Harry,” Kim says. He thinks he understands how Eyes felt back then, all those years ago.

“I’m sorry for being such a fuck-up during the investigation,” Harry whispers. “I’m sorry, Kim. I’m sorry you ever met me.” His eyes are glossing over with tears, and Kim reaches out, wraps an arm around Harry’s shoulders and pulls him down.

When Harry cries, he _really_ cries. He cries like a wounded animal, big heaving ugly sobs that shake his entire body and leaves snot soaking into Kim’s shoulder. He holds Kim – but he is still ever so careful, holding him just so, keeping away from Kim’s wound.

Kim doesn’t really know how long they stand there – a heartbeat? Several minutes? An hour?

He is held up by Harry’s arms, and Harry in turn is supported by him – the world is quiet save for the dying wind and the ever-present rumble of ships hauling their cargo across the skies – commerce never stops, even in the middle of the night.

“It’s okay, Harry,” says Kim. “It’s okay.”

Harry peels his face from Kim’s shoulder; his eyes are bloodshot red, snot bubbles from his nose.

“Me and you, after all this – we’re alive, no?”

“And there’s a Phasmid out there.” whisper-rasps Harry.

“And there’s a Phasmid out there,” agrees Kim. At this range, Harry’s bulk blocks most of the wind, and his jacket keeps most of the chill out. “You did good.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Harry rubs a hand across his eyes. “I’m sorry too? For taking the lighter?”

“It’s _okay_ , Harry.” Kim removes a cigarette from the pack, slips it in between Harry’s lips. He snaps open the lighter. “Here.”

Instinctively, Harry leans forward and inhales, allowing the cigarette to catch aflame. Kim slides a cigarette into his mouth, tilts his head upwards and touches the tip against Harry’s Astra.

It takes a beat for Kim’s cigarette to light up, and they exhale simultaneously, their breaths and smoke mingling together.

There they stand, two men at the very edges of a roof, looking out over the steadily winding down city.

“I’m glad I met you, Kim,” Harry says after a while. His cigarette dangles loosely from his fingers. Ash falls from it.

“Me too, Harry.” Kim runs a thumb over the eye of the lighter, edges up against Harry until he is brushing against the other. “Me too.”


End file.
